


unbury me

by LegQlas



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Undeath, graphic depiction of crawling out of your own grave, hoo boy, it is GRAPHIC, there is way more angst than there is fluff im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26462632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegQlas/pseuds/LegQlas
Summary: Roy is trapped somewhere small and darkJason is mourning roy after his death and avoiding their home
Relationships: Roy Harper/Jason Todd
Comments: 6
Kudos: 44





	1. Roy

**Author's Note:**

> I am not kidding when I say graphic depiction of crawling out of your own grave. Like. Seriously not kidding. I wasn't put in a grave or anything but I think my experience being BURIED ALIVE AS A CHILD is enough to inform whats happening here. PLEASE be careful im begging yall
> 
> Anyhow thank you to my discord server for helping me edit this! And to cindy for betaing regularly throughout!

Darkness. Suffocatingly stale air. A mind racing to figure out where it is. 

His hands shot out and hit a wood ceiling far closer to his body than he had hoped, despite feeling his breath bouncing off of it back onto his face. He had to survive. He couldn’t let himself panic. Taking a deep breath and holding it for a beat, he sets his mind to work.

He was somewhere small, wooden, and dark. Likely buried alive. His gadgets weren’t on him, and he could feel that he was in a button down and nice pants. Likely the work of some new supervillain who was neurotic enough to figure out how to get his kevlar off and then proceeded to put his floppy and unconscious body into a suit. 

That was dedicated, but it could be a lot of people. He braced for the worst, planted his feet as best he could against the top of the casket, and pushed.

The dirt lasted forever. It was the only thought he could have anymore. The dirt was all that was left for him.

Just going from lying down to a position resembling climbing was a nearly impossible feat, composed of wiggling and working at the weakened space that the now-filled coffin had created. Then he had to inch the dirt out of his way, using what leverage he could create for his hands to seek a path through the rocks and cold earth above him. 

Piece by piece, scratching at rocks and roots until either they moved or broke or his fingers did, with lungs burning, he climbed. It wasn’t exactly the right word for what he was doing, but it was all he had. They never taught him the word for crawling out of his own grave in school.

The darkness was so oppressive Roy worried he was already dead and this was his personal hell. 

Until, gloriously, his fingers met a different, more fibrous resistance than dirt, worms, sticks, or rocks. Grassroots. He tried to tear them as best he could with minimal leverage. Archery had given him strong hands and he used every ounce of their strength to rip the roots until his fingertips brushed the base of grass.

His fingers were free.

Now he was faced with getting the grip to pull himself out of the earth. He was afraid, a slow creep of panic that hadn’t had the time to properly take form when all he could think of was finding the surface bubbled over. He started clawing at the area around his hands until he could move his wrists, then he started to get his wrists further through the hole. 

He couldn’t breathe. He used his elbows and the softened ground around him, widening the hole as best he could. It wasn’t much, but it was just enough to get some air on his upturned face.

He tried to pull a breath and ended up with a mouthful of dirt and a glimpse of cold autumn moonlight before the soil collapsed to cover him again.

His fingertips found a nearby stone, felt the blood bead past the false dirt scab to trickle down his hands as he scratched at the ground too hard, trying to reach it properly. He somehow found the leverage to get most of one forearm out and then he could hopefully grab the stone.

His hand found something square. Engraved and polished stone—likely a headstone. With it properly in his hand, Roy desperately pulled with the strength and frenzy of someone knowing they were at their last hope.

He breached the surface.

The first breath of air was singing in his lungs. No more quick puffs in gaps of looser dirt, the ones that filled his mouth and nose with minimal oxygen and more roots, bugs, and soil then he ever wanted to feel. This was pure air. It was fresh and almost holy to breathe in. 

For a moment he rested, just a shoulder and head out of the earth, catching his breath, the night air bright to his eyes, a light layer of frost glittering on the ground around him. It was oddly peaceful.

He was slightly less than half out of the grave when he really looked around. He must’ve gotten turned around at some point because he was facing sideways. He twisted around to look at the gravestone he had a deathgrip on and saw the name.

Roy Harper.

Not Red Arrow, not Arsenal, not even Speedy. Roy Harper. This was serious. Either they knew his name, or he had been in a far deeper sleep than he could have known.

He had to go, now.


	2. Jason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason is wandering and grieving

“I deserve to mourn.”

That’s what Jason had told everyone when he fucked off to a place near where...they used to stay. Not in their safehouse. Not yet. God knows he wasn’t ready for that. But close enough that he could see it from the roof of his current hideout.

Roy used to live there...and not far away was where Roy would stay forever.

Jason slowly made his way down the side of the building, dropping from ledge to uneven brick to windowsill as easily as one might descend perfectly spaced stairs. He began the trek to their favorite safehouse in this city. A place he used to think of as the closest thing he was ever going to be allowed to a home. 

He always knew it was a matter of time before it all went to hell; after all, every person Jason touched either died or hated him. But he genuinely thought they would end because Jason realized Roy wouldn’t leave, and pushed him towards better people. No matter what it did to him, he wanted such good things for Roy.

He started walking down streets, taking the longest, most dangerous route. Anything to postpone searching the place that was supposed to be their home, once upon a time, for some sign that he had existed.

Jason found himself wandering in front of the corner store where they used to buy groceries. A wave of crushing nostalgia washed over him. He stood stock still for a moment before he moved on, unable to look at the memories forcing their way back into his minds eye and blurring his vision with salt. His every part, from his flesh to his bones, was filled with remorse for not being there with him. How alone was he—was it just him there at the end?

He walked faster.

Jason stopped three petty crimes that needed a little nudging and a few “love taps” to end, and five that didn’t even really need his intervention to smoothly de-escalate, he just stood at the mouth of those alleyways with a hand over a holster. Delaying the inevitable was something he was very good at.

He kept walking, as slow as he could, towards Roy’s real resting place, far from that lot with the rocks that marked memories and empty, abandoned shells. Towards the place Jason felt like his soul still lived most days.

Home. Jason was in... a home. Once his, then Roy's, now empty. He stood just inside the threshold. It didn’t feel like Roy was there this time. Jason had no idea if that was good or bad. It felt like a relief and a soul shattering defeat at the same time.

Jason went about the place, avoiding the spaces he and Roy shared. Used to share. He collected a few things from Roy’s workbench (a bandanna, a headband, and a lucky wrench that Roy had sworn by) and began drifting around.

He tied the bandanna around his neck and held the tiny wrench in his hands as he wandered the place. It felt so empty with just Jason in it. It also felt like Jason was in someone else’s home while they were sleeping. He felt like a voyeur.

He avoided the bedrooms. Even the ones they didn’t use.

He fell asleep on the couch that night.


	3. Us

Roy staggered through different places. They would be more than just vaguely familiar if he had the remaining energy to pay closer attention. Or any attention.

Roy was aimless and the world around him was a blur. He stumbled over his own feet and ended up face down on the pavement. As he sat there, regaining himself, he turned his head.

* * *

Roy found Jason in their old safehouse. The one they used to share.

Roy stumbled in and collapsed immediately. He was completely covered in coffin splinters and grave dirt, his fingers bloody and his eyes vacantly haunted with the look of someone who was running out of adrenaline and wasn’t sure if they were safe yet, but regardless they were done running.

Jason saw him as Roy walked right past, not even noticing Jason’s presence, and face planted on the rug.

He looked like hell. Jason's hands itched with phantom pain just looking at Roy's. That seemed to be all he could feel, everything was so numb and distant.

There was a long time when Jason couldn’t move, half convinced he was dreaming or that the stress had caused him to hallucinate. But then, all at once, his mind could only supply how exhausted he had been when he woke up from his own post grave sleep.

Almost mechanically, Jason wiped down Roys hair and face with a washcloth. He dropped it on the carpet and picked Roy (this is Roy, _his Roy_ ) up. The weight forced some awareness into his limbs as he stared into the face he had missed so deeply.

Jason brought him to the bed—his and Roy’s bed. The one they used to sleep in when they stayed here. Jason hadn’t slept in it since Roy died. But when he had Roy in his arms, still filthy and exhausted, it was as natural as breathing to pick him up and bring him to their bed. Their bed.

He layed Roy atop the covers, tried his best to get most of the dirt off of his clothes. He treated Roy’s hands to the tune of the memory of infected fingernails and scars that still hadn’t faded, grabbed a blanket and draped it over him, sat down next to the bed, and had a panic attack.

* * *

Roy woke up somewhere familiar, and all he knew was that he didn’t fall asleep somewhere soft.

He was wary, until he heard Jason lightly snoring. He knew Jason’s whole being, especially his breathing. He used to use that to ground himself through nightmares. Could find it no matter what had happened to him.

Jason must've moved him from wherever he passed out to their bed and thrown a blanket over them both. He turned over and curled himself into Jason’s side, drinking in the fact that he was safe, alive, and most importantly, home.

He could deal with the fallout of everything after. For now he had to sleep and curl further into the comfort of Jason’s body next to his own.

**Author's Note:**

> Phew can you beleive this took me almost a year to write? I can't ajdnakf
> 
> anyhow the other fics on my account are kinda trash or are by the person I share the account with


End file.
